


what doesn't kill me makes me want you more

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, Groundhog Day, Multi, Smut, if you read this remember the golden motto, it aint that deep, my badwrong prompt was:, my fluff prompt was:, sex or die, so do with that information as you will, so obviously i dont think thats going to be a thing, the answer is me, timeloop AU, whos gonna gag if i call it making love?, wtfluff challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-19 07:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Every time the day resets, Bellamy ends up back here: Clarke is exposed to a deadly toxin and he has to watch her be saved by everyone that isn't him. Day two-hundred and seventy-four, he can't take it anymore — he has to make it all stop. Except Clarke has other plans; this time, it's going to be him.Or: timeloop AU + sex or die





	what doesn't kill me makes me want you more

**Author's Note:**

> i put my hand up. on july 31st 2019 one of my friends broke my faith in bellarke and it's taken me a while to recover. like, it was full on thirty minute voicenotes of us ugly crying. hunks of cheese were eaten. it wasn't pretty and i hit a huge writer's block. anyway, i'm trying to force myself through it and i thought this challenge might help me. so shoutout to maria for fucking with my career like that. worst fucking experience of my life. tl;dr: stream lover.
> 
> like you might have noticed i wrote this for the wtfluff challenge, where you combine a fluffy trope with a badwrong trope. i used the generator and got time loop au + sex or die. (i got choking first ngl but that was a little too on the nose and is choking a badwrong? is it really? is it? keep thinking about it). decided NOT to bore you guys too much considering i already feel like my use of words is limited and restricted so lets not have me write the same thing five hundred times over. HUGE, HUGE thanks to [liz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor) for helping me along with this prompt. please go read her stories (after you read this one omg dont leave me in the dirt safeandsound13 matters too)
> 
> and if you thought 'fam i aint gonna read all of that i'm skipping to the last sentence': fat mood even _i_ didn't read that twice. enjoy xxx
> 
> song in the title is cruel summer by taylor swift. listened to 90 days by p!nk and wrabel a lot writing this tho.

* * *

Bellamy barely reacts when it happens. He's tried to prevent it in a lot of different ways. It never works.

"Fine," Clarke spits, but it's weak, resigned. "What does it matter anyway?"

"You're not doing it," Bellamy cuts in, surprising himself, earning him a few strange looks.

"What the hell is your problem?" Raven barks, sounding more than offended, glancing over at Echo. He refuses to look at her. He's broken up with her over a hundred times by now, but she remembers none of them, and he hardly thinks it matters at this point.

"If you didn't realize it yet, Clarke will die if nobody fucks her." Murphy rolls his eyes, bitterly. "Didn't we just go on an exhausting three day trip to try and prevent that from happening? What's different now?"

Josephine took control of Clarke's body. He didn't protect her. They couldn't coexist so she almost died. He couldn't save her. They went to find Gabriel because he could. Now they're here. Nothing's different. It's all the same. Over and over.

"You really need to calm down, man," Jordan says quietly, low enough only for him to hear, as he tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. He can only imagine the pitiful look in his eyes.

"Bellamy," Clarke presses, meeting his fierce and relentless gaze with pleading eyes, always the fucking pleading eyes. "It's okay. It really is."

"No," Bellamy breathes out, finally. All he feels is relief. He's finally doing _something_. He's had enough. His fingers curl into fists at his sides. "You don't understand. None of you do! I've had to stand here and watch you fuck person after person and nothing ever changes! We save you, I get knocked out one way or another and I end up right back here — having to watch you —"

He's watched Raven's small fingers disappear inside of her, Murphy come embarrassingly fast, watched Emori lick a stripe up her neck, one of Gabriel's children slide their hand up her chest. He's watched Clarke's nose scrunch up in disgust, her spine arch in pleasure, heard her moan as she climaxed. He can never get himself to watch _that _part.

"Bellamy—" She interrupts him before he can finish his sentence, and it takes him a second to register her slim fingers wrapped around his wrist.

"_No_," he grits out, "I said no. You're not doing it." Except he's tied her up in that tent one time, and that other time he convinced her to screw everyone else and run away with him, and he still woke up with a pounding headache and Jordan shaking him awake by a tree somewhere in the woods while the early morning dawn breaks through the leaves.

Here's what he's figured out, two-hundred and seventy-three runs in: yesterday, or what's supposed to be yesterday for everyone else, on their way back to Sanctum after a short mission, a green wave of mist seemingly coming out of nowhere hit their group, rolling through them in waves until everything goes dark. It's an temporal anomaly he's learnt.

The next time he opens his eyes, Jordan stares back at him, says, "Rough night?" The first thirty run-throughs Bellamy tried to fake his way through an amused smile before he gave up. Next, Raven groans from his other side, uncomfortable sleeping position against the tree having strained her leg more than usual. Emori calls out to tell them she made breakfast, then hisses as she burns her hand on the handle of the iron skillet. Murphy appears at her side, calls over Jordan to bring over a bottle of water to cool the burnt skin. He rushes over, almost stumbling over the same damn log each time. Octavia and Gabriel emerge from the woods, carrying freshly filled canteens and a small amount of nuts, he says something to her as he pops one into his mouth and his sister laughs quietly. It smells like burnt stew. Raven elbows him in the ribs — which he stops dodging after around the forty-five mark — tells him to stop being lazy and get up. A small hand reaches out from his other side to help him up, and when his eyes follow the arm attached to it to land on a familiar face, it's Clarke. Always Clarke. It gets harder to look up each time.

Nobody seems to remember he's gone through this over and over but him. Just him.

The next part isn't the same every time, but somehow always ends exactly like this: Clarke eats a poisoned berry, or walks into a trap that emits a cloud of purple powder, or somehow ends up drinking contaminated water. No matter what he does, she's always exposed.

Gabriel always tells them the same thing. It's a fast-working, deadly toxin. He's sure they have an antidote in Sanctum, but they're still too far away to make it there in time. She'll need adrenaline to survive. Her body is still weak from Josephine, who they only got rid of eight hours ago. (Eight hours and some long months for him.) The only way to create the hormone naturally is to cause her immense pain, or monumental pleasure.

"So you're saying someone either needs to torture or fuck her?" Raven, brash as ever, will conclude, arms firmly crossed over her chest. First, he thought it was out of concern. After studying her more closely time after time, he reconsidered, classified it as annoyance more than anything. Another inconvenience caused by Clarke after they just went out of their way to save her from the minddrive.

(That's another problem; the more times he has to live through the same scenario, the more he starts to see everything in it's truest form, the more he dislikes people he's supposed to love. You can only listen to the same passive aggressive insults for so long before you start to question whether or not they're rooted in a place of truth. Most often, they're not.)

"She's already weakened," Gabriel will argue, solemnly, looking over at Clarke as she hangs onto Emori for dear life. A tiny layer of sweat is covering her at this point, she'll be shivering, her eyes glazed over and distant, dark circles starting to form underneath them. "My suggestion wouldn't be causing her more trauma."

"It's fine," she'll croak out. Clarke always forces the same smile onto her face. Each time he sees it, it chips away a little bit more of his heart. She's always trying to be brave, always willing to destroy herself to conviene others. "I can take a little pain."

(One time, when he just wanted it all to stop — his darkest moment — when he let their words get to him and actually started to believe that maybe she needed to do this, he didn't protest. Death by a thousand cuts, Echo had suggested with shifty eyes covered in a flash of nostalgia, but just enough to keep her from dying instead. He could only watch for a few minutes before he was heaving against the nearest tree.)

"Definitely not," he says instead, most of the time, eyes insistent on hers. She's stubborn, he knows this. "One of us can help you."

"It's okay," she'll insist again, a certain desperation in her gaze, like she's trying to convince him more than herself. Her voice raspy, fragile. "It's okay."

Octavia will grab her more firmly by the elbow then, steadying her. "It's not. We're not going to hurt you if there's a more viable option right there." His sister looks more like she did when they first came down to earth in that moment. A fierce stubbornness covering her slightly older features, her shoulders straight enough to let all of them know she won't be taking no for an answer. "It's just sex. We're all adults here."

A tense silence follows in which time seems to stand still. He's tried to count before, try to figure out how long it's actually quiet, how long she's actually avoiding his gaze, how long she digs her nails into her palm. The only answer he's come up with so far is that it's long enough for it to be painfully uncomfortable, long enough for him not to be able to read how she really feels, long enough for angry red crescent-shaped welts to form into her palm.

"Fine," she'll finally agree, shoulders slumping forward as she leans more of her weight into his sister. Resigned, bone-tired, reaching up with her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. There's dirt caked under her fingernails, a small black cut across the soft pale skin of the back of her hand. "_Fine. _What does it matter anyway?"

Nine out of ten times, Gabriel is the one who ends up doing it. Somewhere along the line Bellamy realized something had to change, each time he went through it, if he was ever going to find the version of events that could get him out of this fucking loop. And even if that wasn't an option, if this was his personal version of hell that he would be stuck in forever, he figured he deserved it. Watching her be kissed and touched and saved by everyone else was a sick kind of torture, but it was his own fault.

He should've protected her. He should've kept her safe. They wouldn't have needed to get the minddrive out of her head. They wouldn't have been in the woods. The green mist wouldn't have found them. He wouldn't have to live through to over and over until he could tell you the amount of breaths Murphy takes in between insults, or the amount of times Raven blinks when processing new unexpected information.

So sometimes Bellamy tells them about the time loop. He'll tell them how he's been stuck and he's trying to find the right version of this day to get unstuck. They'll tell him he's crazy until Octavia tells them she went through something similar and Gabriel in turn tells them about the temporal anomaly. Until Bellamy predicts what they're going to say, yanks up a sleeve to reveal a bruise he couldn't know about, or recites a conversation from earlier in the day between two people he wasn't a part of and couldn't possibly have overheard. Sometimes he gets by on just Clarke's trust in what he's saying is true. When he's too tired to do any of that, he'll just suggest someone's name before Gabriel does like it's a game of chicken.

All he knew is that death was never an option. He couldn't let her die. And if he needed to watch other people fuck her to prevent that from happening — he would. Someone has to stay near in case she worsens, he convinces himself, has to watch her closely for any signs of distress, to call for help if the toxin takes over before she reaches her peak, and other people offer to do it, but he won't let them. Out of all the options possible, letting Clarke die because he wasn't there for her again isn't one of them. He has to do this. This is his responsibility. His penance. His personal feelings don't matter.

But this time, the two-hundred and seventy-fourth time, Bellamy's had enough. He can't do it anymore.

"No," he cuts in, voice rough, eyes trained on Clarke's as if to show everyone else he isn't all that concerned about their protests. The only person he needs to convince is her. He tries to lean toward authoritative, but knows he ends up sounding and looking more like a domineering asshole. "I said no. You're not doing it."

(Maybe he's sick. Selfish. This is how they save her. And they save her every time. Isn't that enough? It should be. But today, he embraces his sick, selfish side. He feels hot and then cold, feels nausea settle in his stomach.)

"You want to cut her open instead?" Echo barks, full of disbelief, bringing him back to the present, reminding him of the only two other options they have as she folds her arms over her chest. "Or do you want her to die?"

"Of course not," Bellamy snaps, tugging on his hair. The back of his shirt sticks to his skin from sweat. He's sure he's looked better, because he's felt better. "I'm in a timeloop. Yesterday, we entered the temporal anomaly and it's been 273 days. I've had 273 todays. I've done this all before." It's all starting to take it's toll, he can feel his grip on reality slipping day by day. He doesn't know how much longer he can do this. "I can't — I _won't_ do it again."

"I don't understand," Clarke says quietly, pensively, and he can see her trying to come up with a plan already. This time those words of his, accompanied by the desperation in his eyes, seem to be enough for her to at least take him seriously. "It's always the same?"

"Not always," Bellamy relents, clenching his jaw. "But we always end up here, with you infected, on the brink of death."

Gabriel starts, sounding too worried for his liking. He doesn't want to hear any of his wisdom right now. "Bellamy—"

He shakes his head, already cutting him off. He's realized what's wrong. The only thing every day has in common is that he's living through it. Just him.

"No, I think — I think maybe it's me. I'm the reason we're stuck here. I'm the one who should die this time." It makes sense. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore. He's met with silence, so he presses, "Think about it. I'm the only one who has to live through this. When the day restarts, none of you remember anything."

"Don't be stupid," Clarke hisses, her eyes dark on his.

He swallows tightly, wishing he could tell her more, explain it better, but he can't. It's just something he knows he has to do. And she has to understand. There's a lot of things the both of them have done out of duty, out of a responsibility to their people. "I have to try."

The blonde scoffs, taking an accusatory step away from him. She's angry. "What if the day doesn't restart and you're just dead?"

"That's the point, princess," he answers, weary, a self-deprecating, resigned smile curving up his mouth slightly. The nickname slips through without him noticing, and he lets it, considering this might be the last time he ever gets to call her that. For old time's sake. "I'm already in hell."

She looks over at the others, exasperated, but none of them really know _what_ to say. He's made up his mind. Clarke really is the only one who's ever attempted to change it anyway. "There has to be another way," she argues, sending him a pointed look as she adds, "A better way."

It aches. The faces of Monty and Harper flashing in front of his eyes briefly. His friends. He wishes there was. He wishes he could make them proud. Maybe this is the _best_ way.

Curt and final, he retorts simply, "There isn't."

"You're not dying," she insists, shaking her head lightly as she rakes his face, eyes filled with disbelief. She must find something wholeheartedly pathetic there, because her voice breaks on the next word as her shoulders slump over and her gaze softens, "Not for me!"

Anger starts to boil to the surface, starts to overtake his senses, most of all the one telling him to remain calm, telling him yelling at her won't make her see logic. It never does.

"What do you expect me to do? Watch you —" Bellamy breaks himself off, biting down on his tongue, can't bring himself to say it. Instead he settles on, "—get _sick_ every day for the rest of my life?"

A beat passes, tension so thick in the air it makes it hard to breathe.

Clarke eyes the others briefly, then pulls him aside a little so they're mostly out of earshot. "Have _we_—" She cuts herself off, teeth cutting into her bottom lip as she ducks her gaze. It takes him a full few seconds to realize what she's trying to say.

"No," he exclaims immediately, mortified. He would never — he knows that's not what she wants.

Clarke's jaw tightens, a flash of hurt crossing her eyes. Her voice shakes with anger. "I know you don't see me like that, but I didn't think the thought of it would disgust you so much."

"God, it's not that. It's not that at all," he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I just figured—"

That it wouldn't change anything. He's doomed to be stuck here forever. If it wasn't any of his friends, what's going to be different about him? It probably has nothing to do with her. And since it wouldn't change anything, why force himself on her when there's a lot of other willing and very capable parties to help her just as well, maybe even better? It won't matter to her if it's him, or Gabriel, or Raven. It's all the same to her. So it's senseless. Mostly he's a coward who doesn't want to torture himself with the imagery, who doesn't want to be confronted with the fact it really is all the same to her. He'll be the only one who remembers, which almost makes it feel dirty, tainted.

Clarke snaps, and even in her weakened state, there's that familiar powerful intensity about it. "That _what_?"

He grits his teeth together. "It wasn't what you would want."

"Did you ever ask me?" She demands, brows furrowed together. "Any of the two-hundred something times you've stood there and —"

He can't bring himself to lie to her, so he doesn't. Instead he lets the silence linger.

"That's what I thought." Clarke scoffs, crosses her arms over her chest, then uncrosses them like she's conflicted herself what way to approach this. If she's attacking or defending. "Maybe I have to die." His narrowed eyes snap up to meet hers, and she doesn't look away as she reasons, "Maybe that's what needs to change."

Bellamy lets out an almost humoured huff. Of course that's _her _first instinct. To use her own life as a negotiation tactic, as a solution, as a defense mechanism. Loud and final, he asserts, "No."

"We can keep going back and forth over this but you said neither me or you has ever died." Reasoning, and completely rational in the most infuriating way — a way he never got completely down, not even in their six years apart — she points out, "Why would the temporal anomaly make you go through to this if you were just going to end up dead? It has to be me."

His face remains blank, refusing to meet her challenge. He doesn't want her to think this is a fight, because then she'll think there's a way she can win. He's learnt there isn't. "It's a temporal anomaly. It doesn't want anything. Maybe it needs me to sacrifice myself"

Something hard washes over her face, hard and defiant and maybe even hurt. "So you'll kill yourself but you won't fuck me?" Her fists ball at her sides, her gaze insistent on his. Hateful, almost. "Is that it?"

His brain jumpstarts, trying to find the right words to explain to her how that isn't it. Isn't it at all but he can't take the risk of even trying. He's already too close to insanity. "Clarke —"

Suddenly, she reaches out to grasp his fingers, her skin clammy. Her words hit him like a punch in the gut, knocking the breath right out of him. "I want you to," she says simply, like it's really just that easy.

Bellamy searches her face with his brown eyes, tries to find what she's so desperately trying to accomplish here. He's certain it won't make a difference. Not to her, not to the temporal anomaly.

"I want you to try this first," Clarke corrects herself, dropping his hand. "And then tomorrow—"

"The next today really," he murmurs, despite himself, still directing a frown right at her. He'll never be able to figure her out. Not completely.

The corners of her lips turn up slightly. "Your next today, you can try dying."

"That's funny. I always thought it was a permanent kind of thing." He's feeling delirious at this point. She _wants_ him to. That's what she said. It's not true, not really. She just wants him to so she can try and save him. Even if it's just once. "Dying."

A familiar twinkle washes over her eyes, just a little more sad than usual, and he feels like he can take his first breath in ages. This is Clarke. Just Clarke. And if he's dying anyway—she's right. Or he is. It won't matter, but he can give her this. He can let her think he's saving him today, so tomorrow he can prevent all of this and just go through with it. "Well, wait until you find about the mind drives."

He nods, pretends his pulse isn't rattling quickly in his neck. "I'll tell the others."

Clarke starts to open her mouth, then sags against a nearby tree as she swallows thickly, beads of sweat trailing down her temple. He starts to reach out for her, but she swats him away, forces a shaky smile on her face, "_Today,_ please."

He squeezes her shoulder quickly, striding back over to the others. Before he has time to open his mouth, Murphy is already rolling his eyes. "You got to be fucking kidding me."

"I'm the only person who hasn't done this yet," he justifies, trying to keep it as clinical as possible. If he thinks about what this implies, about what is going to happen next, he might throw up. "If I wake up tomorrow and it's still today, at least I'll know."

Bellamy stands there, fixing his jaw as he takes in their judgemental stares, feels their dislike of him or the situation (he's not sure) radiate off them in waves. Gabriel hasn't looked away for even just a second, offers a simple, "It makes sense."

"What are you waiting for?" Echo breaks the tense silence, and he knows it's her way of telling him she's supportive of this, placating, never giving him a reason to argue with her. Which — he'll deal with that tomorrow. Again. "It's not like you have any time to waste."

He nods, locks eyes with Raven for a second — she scoffs, turns on her heel swiftly, pinching the bridge of her nose — before he repeats the gesture more firmly, turning to walk back to Clarke. He figures it's no use asking anyone to watch this time — sure he's not going to miss a single expression on her face.

It takes her a second to look up at him from where she's leaning against the tree with her upper arm, but when she does, it almost knocks the breath straight out of him. A soft grin plays on her lips, just a little pained around the edges. "Hi."

"Hey," Bellamy replies, careful, then frowns as she starts to reach for the zipper of her jacket like she can't wait to get this over with.

"Not here," he says, taking her hand in his again; her fingers tiny compared to his, her pale skin in contrast to his golden brown complexion, her palm uncharacteristically warmer than his.

Softly, he pulls her back towards Gabriel's tent he's shared with Emori and Murphy the first few days of their journey back to Sanctum. This time, she got contaminated fairly early in the day, before they left camp, before they had time to pack up their few belongings.

It's small, and he has to crouch down to reach for the zipper, hand still connected with hers behind his back. Bellamy pushes aside the tent flap, holding it up so Clarke can get in.

He follows her inside, finds her sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest on the sleep pad the most to the right. Because it's bright daylight outside, it's not hard to make out the anxious expression on her face.

"If you want to back out at any moment," Bellamy starts, uncertain, but she shakes her head firmly, swallowing tightly, rising up on her knees to mirror his position. It's killing him that he can't read the expression on her face from this angle. One shaky hand lands on top of his shoulder, like she's trying it out, and she keeps her eyes trained there as she whispers, "Can you just—" Her gaze flicks up to meet his, finally. "Would you kiss me first?" It looks like it costs her something to ask.

He doesn't say anything, instead he lifts his hands to rest on her waist. Ducking his head slightly so their foreheads are touching. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat, free hand coming up to rest on his other shoulder automatically, almost like she's bracing herself. The scent of her — lily of the valley mixed with cedarwood after a fresh rainfall, reminding him of _earth_ — overwhelms him, combined with this newfound proximity makes it hard to think clearly. His eyes flick down to her lips, and all he can think about, all he wants, _crave_s, is to know what she tastes like.

Bellamy leans in slowly, giving her enough time to pull away. Then she doesn't, and his lips are crushed against hers. His heart pounds loudly, blood rushing to his ears and blocking out the sound of a nearby stream of water, ignorant birds chirping, the distant murmuring of his friends keeping busy. All he feels, sees, breathes is _Clarke_, and he can't for the life of him figure out why he hasn't done this the first two-hundred and seventy-three times, how he could possibly have gone without knowing what she feels like, just like this.

It's just soft at first, just the press of his mouth against hers, but then she arches to meet him, letting out a small whimper against his mouth, giving him an opportunity to deepen the kiss. One of his hands moves up to cup the back of her small head, thumb resting on her cheekbone, trying to get closer, always trying to get closer.

Soon she's pushing his jacket off his shoulders before shrugging out of her own, not even bothering to break the heated kiss between them that's gotten more than sloppy. The hand on her waist slides down to move beneath her black tank, his hot palm meeting the soft chilled skin of her stomach while his other thumb moves over her cheekbone slowly, grounding them through the hungry kisses and the frenzied fire building deep within.

Clarke starts tugging on the bottom of his shirt, frantic, and he pulls away from her mouth to grab it the collar at the back of his neck and pull it over his head. Her trembling hands immediately fumble with the bottom of her own tank, and he instead of watching her struggle, he helps her pull it over her head. Her fingers dig back into his shoulders, leaning up to meet his mouth again.

He pulls back a little, halting her with his hands on her waist, takes a second to take it all in. If he's dying tomorrow, he wants to remember this moment. He wants to be able to see it clearly as he goes. Her flushed skin, blown pupils, swollen lips. All because of him. He could look at her forever.

Even the little frown beginning to form between her brows in confusion as she speaks, voice hoarse and breathy enough to make his pants tighten impossibly, fingernails digging further into his flesh, enough to create half moon indentations, "Don't stop."

"I don't think I could even if I wanted to," Bellamy admits, sliding a hand up her side slowly to graze her breast, to trace her collarbone, to move up her neck, to palm her cheek. His touch leaves goosebumps in it's wake. She leans into it, nuzzling him slightly before pressing a kiss there. Her gaze meets his, the darkness he finds there setting his insides on fire.

Clarke tries again, to close the distance between their mouths, and this time he lets her, banding his arms around her waist to pull her chest against his. She's gorgeous, feels even better against him. Bellamy leans more of his weight onto her until she takes the hint, letting him lower her on top of the sleeping pad until he's on his knees in between her thighs, hands sliding from her back back to her sides. She takes in a shuddery breath as she stares up at him, maybe the sudden lack of contact of his skin on hers having as much of an effect on her as it has on him.

"You're shaking," he states, dark, grip on her waist tightening. Fuck. They must not have much more time.

"It's not—" Clarke starts, licking her lips. He follows the movement carefully. Her eyes flutter close briefly, embarrassed, he thinks. "I'm nervous."

He put on a brave face, mouth curving into a characteristic smirk — because maybe if he pretends all of this is normal, it'll feel more like it — sliding his hands up her ribs, thumbs digging into the skin just below her bra. "You're Clarke Griffin, what do you have to be nervous about?"

She tilts her head just slightly, mussing up her blonde hair. Her sentence starts headstrong, then she starts to struggle with finding the rights words. "You're Bellamy, you're — you're my…" Clarke bites down on her bottom lip, shaking her head slightly as she trails off. "You're Bellamy."

He can't help but shift back down, leaning over her by supporting his weight on his forearms as he connects their mouths. He feels the same way. She's Clarke, special, to him. So special. Something that runs much deeper than just love. Inwardly, he's cursing himself for never noticing before, for never allowing himself to, for convincing himself she could never feel the same way when it was right there in front of him all along. Then she tightens her knees around his hips while her hands start fumbling with the button of his pants, biting down on his bottom lip softly to bring his attention fully back to her, and all rational thoughts leave his mind.

Bellamy tears his lips away from hers to press them against the corner of her mouth, her cheek, down the column of her throat. She arches slightly off the sleeping mat, just enough so she can reach behind and unclip her bra, sliding the straps down her arms before tossing it aside. He chucks his own pants, reveling in the removal of restraint on his groin, kicking them off somewhere into a corner of the tent haphazardly.

He moves further down so he can nip at the soft flesh of her breasts, soothing the sting with his tongue. Snaking one hand in between them, he unbuttons her pants expertly, fingers dipping underneath the band of her underwear to slip between her folds. She's slick from her own wetness and he has to bite back a groan at the sheer amount of it. Her whole body flinches as his thumb presses down on her clit, one finger disappearing inside her while his mouth continues it's ministrations on her breasts.

This would be enough. If he could make her come like this, it should be enough to save her. And maybe he's selfish, but he wants more. More, and again. And again. He wants to experience how tight and warm she feels around him, even find out how she tastes. It's intoxicating — _she_'s intoxicating — the more he gets, the more he wants.

Bellamy adds another finger, looks up to gauge her reaction, and then can't help but move back up her body and lean down to press his lips against the beauty mark just above her mouth.

"Please," she gasps against his shoulder, arms involuntarily contracting tightly around his back, sinking her teeth into the flesh briefly as she keens below him. Clarke presses a soothing kiss over what he's sure are teeth mark, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. "Please. I need — if it's just this once — I want all of you."

He catches her wrists before she can push his underwear down, using one hand to pin them above her head. Bellamy leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, much too gentle for what they're trying to pretend to be doing here. "And you'll get what you want, I promise."

Clarke sucks in another shaky breath, nodding slowly as his other hand snakes back down and continues to apply pressure to her heated centre. He slides two fingers back inside her, being met with a loud moan as she tries to clamp her thighs together, instead just tightening her grip around his hips. He pumps his fingers in out slowly, lets her find friction against his palm, take what she needs.

He can't help but lean down and take her nipple back into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until she's making small, breathy noises, squirming below him. He knows she's close, so he releases her with a wet sound and leans back enough to study her face.

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes screwed shut tightly, plump pink lips slighted partly as she bites down on the inside of her cheek trying to keep quiet. He crooks his fingers to reach that special, soft spot inside her, earning him a long drawn out moan of his name, exactly what he wants. Now he can finally allow himself to — he wants to watch her fall apart, wants to hear her pleasure, wants to make her feel the best she's ever felt.

He can't help but lean down to capture her lips again, and she can't really kiss back, can just moan and gasp into his mouth as something snaps and she finally reaches her climax below him. Her whole body growns taut, her pelvis bucking up against his palm as he lets her ride out the aftershocks while he presses soft kisses to her neck and collarbone.

A few moments later, Clarke starts moving again, eyes fluttering open and applying pressure to the hand keeping hers pinned to the bed until he relents and releases them. She pushes up on her elbows to meet his mouth, and although he can tell she's desperate for more, it's soft and sweet like something precious might break if she isn't careful.

Pulling away, he starts pushing his boxers down his hips, his hardness springing free against his abdomen. Before he can register it, Clarke wraps her small, soft hand around his cock, giving it a few strokes before looking straight up at him as she guides him to her entrance.

She rubs him across her folds a few times, trying to get him as wet and slick as she is. Her eyes are still fixated on his as she starts sliding him inside of her, a small gasp leaving her lips at the invasion. He has to clench his jaw to ground himself, her warmth and tightness surrounding him in the most perfect way, which he's not sure he could ever _possibly_ forget. Once he's fully sheathed inside, he stops bracing himself on his fists and instead lowers himself onto his forearms, fulfilling his own desire to be as close as possible to Clarke. His — his _Clarke_.

Her chest heaves up and down erratically against his, so he gives her a moment longer to adjust, until her arms fold around his back, hands on his shoulders to pull him closer. Until her heels press into the back of his thighs, urging him to move as she presses her mouth to his collarbone.

Bellamy starts up a slow, steady rhythm as he places butterfly kisses down her cheek and jaw, just wanting to touch as much of her as he physically can. Her breathing starts to pick up again, burning heat starting to spread between the two of them, and it's not long before he tastes salt. He pulls back a little to raise up a hand and thumb away the few stray tears streaming down her cheeks, while she untangles one of her own hands from behind him to do the same for him. He hadn't even realized he was crying.

He's not sad, per se, it's just a lot at once. It's everything he ever wanted and didn't know he needed, but he also knows this is the only time he'll ever have it. The finality of this moment hits him right where it hurts, right where it almost makes it hard to breathe. Even if he doesn't permanently die tomorrow, he won't allow himself to have a moment like this again.

It'll only get harder as time goes by, harder to wake up to her not knowing about anything that's happened, the way he feels, _what _he feels for her. He can't possibly convey it in words. Not any words he knows anyway.

He can try and convey it in the way he looks at her — seeing her, truly _seeing_ her for who she is, not because, but despite of what she has and hasn't done, forgiving her, loving her, unconditionally even when he hates it the most — as their bodies start to move together again, in the way their sweat-covered skin slides together, in the way one of his hands covers her and their fingers intertwine. It's everything he can't bring himself to say, everything and a little bit more. Somehow it's always a little bit more with her.

Clarke presses her mouth back against his, and it's messy at best as he tries to keep his trusts even. She's close again, too, so he brings his free hand back down to her core, rubbing tight, small circles over the spot she's most sensitive. Their mouth break apart as she gasps, body growing tense and nails digging into one side of his ribs and the skin of the back of his hand as she comes. She clenches and unclenches around him unrhythmically, making it hard for him to try and hold on much longer, to suspend the moment for as long as possible. He nips at her jaw, throat, guides her through it as he pushes into her once, twice, three times before he's following her right down the path of release. It's so intense he almost feels himself black out, warmth spreading from the center of his chest to the tips of his fingers.

He's practically trembling as he collapses down on top of her, inhaling her sweet scent as he brushes away her blonde locks from the crook of her neck lazily. After they take a moment to breathe, he slips out of her, rolling onto his back beside her and grabbing the blanket beside him to pull it over the two of them. It's quiet for a long while. He's afraid to touch her, afraid to look at her, and has to fight his instincts not to wrap her in his arms.

Finally, he turns his head, letting it loll to side. Still panting, he can't help but ask, "How are you?" They did do this for a reason, after all.

"Good," she replies, short, eyes fixated on the dark-green ceiling of the tent.

Bellamy isn't sure what he can say or do to make it better. To not have this feel so unfamiliar, a feeling that's foreign when it comes to him and her. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Do you want to find the others?"

He has to strain to make out what she says as another tear trails down the corner of her eye, disappears into her hairline, arms laying flatly beside her. "In a little while, okay?"

His chest feels tight, like his heart is trying to beat it's way out of the confines of his ribcage. He turns onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. Concerned, he pries, "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," Clarke answers, voice considerably unaffected as her fingers quickly wipe away the wetness covering her temple before she turns on her side, too, facing him, one arm folded beneath her cheek. She wets her lips, eyes trained on his sternum as he gives her a moment to put together her thoughts. She's brave for trying, because he's not sure he could tell her anything of value right this second. Finally, she meets his gaze, replacing her gaze with her free hand, heart drumming wildly under her palm. "It's just— even if you get to do this over and over, I only get this once." She manages a weak smile. "Can we just — can we please just stay a little longer?"

If it was up to him, he'd stay here forever. He wouldn't mind a timeloop of this exact moment. Bellamy's sure he doesn't have to say it for her to know it, so instead he bands his arm around her shoulders, pulling her further into his chest.

"If it makes any difference," he speaks into the emptiness, chin resting on the top of her head. Even if he doesn't believe it, not really, after all this time, he can still dream. "I really do hope that you'll remember this tomorrow. I'm not sure I could bear it if you didn't."

She turns her head a little, presses her cheek to his pec, kisses his bicep softly. "As long as we're breathing, right?"

He closes his eyes and fights a smile. "As long as we're breathing."

After a while it starts to get dark, and even if Clarke is no longer on the brink of death, she has to eat and drink. She protests, but her stomach rumbles traitorously, so she lets him help clasp her bra into place and pull her shirt over her head. He smooths over her hair, pressing a fond peck to her nose because he can't quite stop himself, before he leaves her and the comfort of the warm blanket to pull on her pants while he scrambles together his own clothes.

As he opens the zipper of the tent back up, he can feel the anxiety radiate off her in waves, so he reaches back for her hand. He doesn't know exactly what she's afraid of, but he knows they'll face it together, like they always do.

"Took you guys long enough," Murphy sneers, once they make it to the campfire they've built not far from the basecamp. He snaps a branch in half, flings one half of it into the blaze angrily.

Echo's eyes zero in on their joined hands, but she doesn't say anything, hands clasped together in between her knees. Raven, however, scoffs, gritting her teeth together. "It's just so un-fucking-believable how she left you to die _days_ ago, and now you're right back wrapped around her finger. Maybe she ingested them on purpose, hoping you'd come sweep in and—"

"Whatever you guys want to say to _me_—" he emphasizes, cutting her off with a dark look as he takes a tiny, almost imperceptible step forward, but enough to shield Clarke from all of them. Her fingers tighten around his. "I will listen to it tomorrow, okay?"

If there is one, he'll do it. He'll find the strength for all their anger and frustration and confusion, he'll scrape together enough energy to apologize to who needs it, who deserves it. Right now, he doesn't see the use. Right now, he's exhausted. Right now, he just wants Clarke to be eat something. He's taking it minute by minute.

Nobody says anything, but then Emori gets up and walks over to the skillet by the fire, starts to scoop two portions into their makeshift metal bowls. She hands one to each of them as they sit down on a log side by side, the dark-haired girl giving Clarke a small wink he almost misses.

Their shoulders brush together as they eat quietly, and it's sooner rather than later when people start to droop off — alone or in pairs — to find a place to sleep before they continue their rough journey to Sanctum first thing in the morning.

Eventually, he puts out the fire, takes her hand back in his as he pulls her to her feet. She's still a little weak on her legs, but this is Clarke. She's been through worse. There's only one tent that's undoubtedly been claimed by someone already so he finds them a spot by a familiar looking tree, dry ivy twisted around it, slumping down against it's broad trunk.

Clarke sinks down beside him, immediately pulling his hand into her lap, and placing her free hand on top of their joined hands. They can hear Murphy and Jordan in their version of a quiet brawl not too far away from them, the sharp scratchy sound of a zipper being opened and closed, someone aimlessly tinkering with one of the radios they know don't work here which can only be Raven. Only she would think she's able to defy the rules of physics.

There's a companionable silence between them, and it stretches for so long, at one point he assumes she's asleep. Then suddenly, she lifts her head off his shoulder, exhaustion tinting her sleepy, hoarse voice. "Hey, by the way—" Clarke shifts her head to meet his gaze, corners of her mouth turning up in a genuine smile. "Thank you for saving my life."

He lets out a huff of humoured air. "I can honestly tell you anyone here would have done the same."

"Yeah," she agrees, despite the hostility her friends continue to meet her with, squeezes his hand. "But I'm glad it was you."

Bellamy finds himself grinning despite himself, despite knowing she might not remember this tomorrow and he's the only one who can hold onto this moment, keep it safe, knowing that might make the validity of this moment questionable at best. He decides not to care. He hunches his head a little, leans closer until they're breathing the same air. She closes the final distance between them, meets his mouth, soft and dry, just briefly. A promise.

"Here's to nothing," Clarke murmurs, leaning her head back against his shoulder as her eyes flutter closed. She must be exhausted.

He brings her hand up to his mouth, presses his lips to it for a long moment. Famous last words and all, he echoes, "Here's to nothing."

Bellamy closes his eyes, feels the darkness pull at him until it's all he sees. For the longest time it feels like he's swimming close to the surface, but like he can't quite break it. Suspended in the depth until he hears the familiar sound of his name, tugging at him.

At first, he ignores it. He doesn't want to do this again. When he finally blinks his eyes open, squinting at the sunlight surrounding him. Half his body feels warm, too warm, and heavy. He startles at the sight of no Jordan above him. He braces for impact on his side, but when he turns his head, Raven isn't there. Someone squeezes his hand, and when he looks over it's Clarke, leaning against his side. Her baby-blue eyes crinkle with sleepy amusement. "You okay?"

The breath is knocked right out of him as he realizes this isn't day two-hundred and seventy-five. Without even thinking about it, he wraps his arms around her tightly, pulling her so close he's half lifting her into his lap. Clarke makes an unfamiliarly delighted sound in the back of her throat as she presses her face into the crook of his neck, hugging him back just as fiercely. (He promises himself he's going to make it his life mission to familiarize himself with the sound. She deserves it. )

Finally coming somewhat to his senses, he breathes, "You remember?"

She pulls back slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet as she smoothes away some hair from his forehead. Delicately, she urges, "I do."

Finding words fall short, he just wraps his arms back around her, burying his face back in her shoulder. Another moment, and she's murmuring against the sensitive skin of his neck, "What now?"

He squeezes her waist, once, then releases her again, so she can move if she wants to. She doesn't. Bellamy chuckles, low. "Now I say we keep you away from any and all purple colored things until we're back in Sanctum."

Clarke hides a smile as she punches him in the arm, hard enough to impress him. She recovers quick. Her gaze softens, "It's okay, you know? I'd understand if—"

"If nothing," he cuts her off, shaking his head a little. "Clarke," he urges, "We broke the timeloop. Me and you. That means something."

Her face grows harder, her voice harsher. "Maybe it does, but I want you to know it doesn't have to. We still have a choice. _You_ still do."

Even if that was the case, the choice has already been made. They made it yesterday, and he would make it again today. He doesn't give a fuck about the temporal anomaly or about what it wants or needs. That's not why — he loved her long and in many different ways before they even ever stepped foot onto Sanctum.

"I don't want a choice," he assures her, rubbing her thigh comfortingly. Tilting his head slightly, his voice softens, "I just want you."

Clarke leans forward to kiss him, longingly and reverently and a little demanding, and it's not long before it grows hungrier, grows to all teeth and tongue and fingers pressing desperately into skin, tugging on hair, trying to find purchase. He loves her, he's certain of that.

At some point, somebody clears their throat, and they pull apart to find Octavia standing a few feet away from them, covered in the early morning light, arms crossed over her chest. "Bell—there's a few people who have some questions for you and if you take any longer, they're going to make up their own answers."

He nods at his sister, knowing she's right. He has a ton of shit to explain. Bellamy tells her they'll be right there, digging his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets to release some of the building pressure behind the lids.

Clarke gets off him, brushing away some dirt off her pants, and before she has the chance to take a step into the direction of the others, he catches her by the wrist. "I didn't get to say it earlier, but—"

A flash of panic crosses her eyes, and then she's cutting him off. "I know," she urges, smiling up at him softly. She leans up on her tiptoes slightly to peck his mouth reassuringly. And then again, just to be sure. "I feel the same way."

He guesses the phrase 'I love you' comes with it's own fair share of trauma for her, but he doesn't need to say it or hear it to know she feels it too. And for the first time in months, they have time to work on it.

With a deep sigh, she tilts her head toward the base of the camp. "Time to face the music."

He laughs, genuine and loud and full of relief. Whatever he's about to face, it won't come near the amount of misery he's faced the past few months. Each minute by her side, he's more and more convinced it was just a mere fever dream. She's good at that, drowning out the bad.

Clarke smiles at the sound, but her brow crinkles in confusion, nose scrunching up slightly.

He raises his eyebrows at her, the beginning of a smirk playing on his lips. "Time," he repeats the word like it tastes curiously on his tongue. "Funny thing, isn't it?"

He's more than happy to face the music, anything for a little variety.

**Author's Note:**

> ***vine voice* oh my god they were soulmates**
> 
> anyway let me know what you think, dont forget to subscribe to my channel and leave a thumbs up and find me [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or if you insist [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell, prompt me, or put our hands up and misinterpret together.


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